Angel with a Shotgun
by Tsuki the Wolf
Summary: An Original muse of the sciences made itself human and sent itself to Earth in order to defy the duties given unto it upon creation. The Guardian is an angel created to replace the muse and to watch over the Human-Angel. In the new age the Human-Angel is reborn as Sherlock Holmes and the Guardian is sent to Earth to watch directly over him dubbed as "John Watson".


**A/N: Hello. This was originally going to be a long (_long_) one-shot but this is clearly turning into a monster so I decided to upload this first "chapter" to see the responses to it. The story is inspired loosely on the song "Angel with a Shotgun" by The Cab.**

**This is a story where the Johnlock can be viewed as platonic or romantic. Please tell me what you think when you finish. Much obliged! **

* * *

**Prologue**

A long while ago angels were created into being. All were perfect in their own ways: some were soldiers, other muses for the arts, and others still were muses for the sciences. They knew all that they were granted to know and revel in. However there was one particular angel who grew unsatisfied. Within its being the sense of discomfort flooded through him. Heaven (if that's where they really were; the place they existed in was never really given a proper name) no longer satisfied the angel. Within its being it possessed so much knowledge but all of this knowledge had nowhere to go. Was it just there to off-handedly inspire humans to seek more knowledge? The angel watched its brethren and grew angry at the passivity around it. The angel knew something was wrong with it because it wanted to leave its position despite it being one of the Originals –like Lucifer and Michael and Gabriel- of his Father. Was he to be the next betrayer of Heaven?

**No,** he murmured to himself, **I do not wish to harm my family.** He didn't particularly like fighting. He did not wish to turn on his brethren but neither was he satisfied with his lot in life (if this was even considered "life"). Frustrated he attempted to pray for answers but his Father never spoke to him. Anger –an emotion he never once felt before and it burned him- flared up with a passion within him. Here he was a creature different from its brethren and yet his Creator did nothing to help him understand. For days he wallowed in his new-founded emotions. His mind ran with thousands of thoughts on a constant basis along with this sudden influx of emotions. His dissatisfaction only continued to grow while on Earth the humans suffered from lack of innovation. He was scolded which in turn only made him angrier. His brothers dare scold him for ideas that they couldn't even seem to comprehend. He was an angel of the sciences so why was he feeling the emotional turmoil of angels in charge of the arts?

One day it occurred to him simply: he didn't need to deal with these emotions. Emotions were not his area of expertise so he would ignore them. He needed to focus on the desire from which these emotions came from. He was a muse of the sciences: an angel whose job was a passive one. He was created to discover the end results of scientific ideas and to encourage humans to put the numbers two and two to make the four he had recently discovered. Never did he interact with these humans. His knowledge planted seeds within the most scientific of humans that gradually sprouted their curiosity to find the result for themselves. The angel disliked it. He was tired of watching the humans put the results together. He wanted to be the one to place two and two to make four. He didn't want to be a passive role.

With these thoughts in mind the angel threw himself downwards to the Earth and sacrificed his angelhood. After all, what was the point of these heavenly powers if he was just going to be _bored_ all of the time?

However this story was not about this particular angel but instead the angel created after Heaven lost one of its children to the Earth.

* * *

**Part One**

Heaven, since the beginning, needed a set number of angels. When Lucifer had rebelled and had Fallen along with a few more of his brethren, they were replaced with new angels. So this occurred any time an Original angel disappeared. The angel that replaced the Human-Angel had been created for a specific purpose: to watch over this rogue child of Heaven. This new child of Heaven did his job properly and watched the rogue as the Human-Angel died and revived into new lives. The angel watched over the troubled soul with tender eyes. He was there to softly influence this rogue. The rogue fell under many different names given unto it by his human mothers. The angel wondered to himself exactly what his job title would be. He wasn't a Muse, per se, but he certainly wasn't an active role like a warrior. He liked to think of himself as a Guardian angel but it was too large of an active role to fit the mold the angel had been cast from.

The Human-Angel was a curious being. The creature did not retain any memories that it'd had from its time in Heaven. It had no idea of the wings that every other angel could see on its form. It went around like an oblivious human doing rather unordinary human things. In one era the rogue would be an alchemist who made the name Nicholas Flamel famous (even if it was a number of years later). In the next life he would become a philosopher (that was soon abandoned) and then in the next a scientist. In one life he became a drug lord so simply and easily it made his "Guardian angel" twitter with disapproval and worry before the rogue became so bored with that life he allowed it to be taken by pirates. In the next life, ironically, he _became_ a pirate. On and on this Human-Angel lived and died. Sometimes it was a she and (more often) it was a he. Sometimes he died before he really lived and other times he lived far after he should've died (it was very good of him not to pass on the secret to immortality that he had discovered as an alchemist).

His angel watched over the rogue while emotions generated turmoil within itself. Watching this Human-Angel have free-will made him feel happy. Granted the rogue often was bored with its various lives but the soul that traveled through these lives glowed so brightly it was a wonder humans couldn't see it. The angel saw that the rogue's wings were full and vibrant in colour with excitement often shivering through its feathers. Sometimes the angel reached his hand down from the Heavens as if he could actually touch them (he never did of course; he didn't interfere). He loved the rogue angel as deeply as any creature could love another. He only wished he could actually stand by the rogue's side. What would it be like to talk to him? No angel has interacted with the Human-Angel since he Jumped.

Centuries passed and a tizzy went up among the various muses of the sciences. This new generation would be one of many scientific discoveries. The Human-Angel was once a muse like them. What kind of havoc would this rogue cause in this generation of nuclear warheads and so many, many dangerous toys? While the Human-Angel would be reborn no matter how many times he killed himself due to his angelic nature, other humans would not. The Human-Angel was a dark spot on the parchment of Humanity and nobody could control him. There was no predestined path for this creature of abnormality. He could weave the future if he so wished (and so it was a mercy he remembered nothing when he was reborn). The angels often went to the rogue's Guardian but the Guardian only shrugged.

"What can I do in my passive role?" He asked.

An agreement went out. The Human-Angel could not be trusted to live alone in this era. Something must be done. The risk was too great.

Suddenly the Guardian was no longer in a passive role.

* * *

The house the Guardian arrives at is large in comparison to most humans' house. It could fit two families in it comfortably and easily have enough bathrooms for it to never be backed up. The door in front of him was opened by a child no older than the age of fourteen human years. His brown hair had a three/fourths part to the right side and his brown eyes gazed impassively at this figure that arrived at his house and motioned him inside.

"You took longer than expected." The boy said.

"I was getting used to this form." The Guardian admitted. He glanced at the boy whose eyes were far too old for his form. "I'm sorry-"

"It's Mycroft in this form." The boy interrupted before his angelic name was said. He looked at the Guardian and the Guardian felt ever so slightly cowed. This angel was of a higher rank than he was and on top of that he was an Original. He was an active angel. The Guardian felt the need to bend to his will.

"Odd name for a human."

"My 'family' is rather odd."

The two of them entered a study where Mycroft sat down in a large armchair. His body didn't quite relax into the plush of the chair even after he had settled. The Guardian sat down in the chair across from him and glanced around them. Two large windows were on the wall beside the chairs and overlooked a lake. There were some children out there frolicking. A burgundy rug made the walls seem darker than they really were. The room felt heavy. The Guardian flexed his wings widely once before tucking them back and against his form. They shrunk and fell steady hidden under his jacket. The Guardian shifted uncomfortably in this sensational body. He wasn't sure he liked it but it was exhilarating to actually _feel._

The two regarded each other silently. The Guardian didn't feel like speaking –he was the one summoned here after all- but Mycroft didn't start. Silence permeated for far longer than socially acceptable and finally the Guardian caved, "I don't understand why I'm here."

"You have heard, I'm sure, about the complaints towards the Human-Angel." Mycroft began immediately after the other angel had spoken. He waited for the other to nod before continuing, "You're here because you're supposed to take responsibility for the rogue you've been created to watch over."

The Guardian's eyebrows furrowed and he frowned. "I'm a passive angel."

"So you are." Mycroft agreed, leaning back a bit in his chair. His feet fell a little short of fully touching the carpet now. The Guardian's feet only touched the ground somewhat when he was sitting up straight. These were either tall chairs or his human form was rather short.

"I thought your role here was to watch out for him." The Guardian continued.

"Indeed?" Mycroft sat up fully again. The quiet rustle of feathers indicated his wings shifting to accommodate his movements. Mycroft frowned to himself at the sound and repeated the movement without a sound this time. Pleased he continued his thought, "You're wrong, however."

"Am I?" The Guardian questioned.

Mycroft sent him a sharp look not missing the tone. "It is not my job to watch over the rogue. I am an active angel and I have duties to attend to. I cannot be placed into a passive mold."

"And yet you're here in this role." The Guardian countered motioning to the body the other angel was in. Mycroft picked at his clothes disdainfully a bit.

"Yes, I was rather fond of my old body but new jobs needed to be done while I'm in this form. I have to go through human puberty again." The sneer on his face almost made the Guardian laugh. Instead the angel tried to hide a smirk. By the time Mycroft met his eyes again he had managed to get his features under control. "One of these jobs include helping out the rogue when he needs it –which admittedly is often even if the boy doesn't believe so. He's a handful."

"I know." The Guardian smiled fondly.

"You would, wouldn't you?" He eyed the other angel contemplatively, "But you want to know why you're here."

"Yeah, that would be nice to know."

"You've become snarky, Guardian." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "The Human-Angel has rubbed off on you. Surprising when you've never been in contact with him. Be careful not to follow his path." The Guardian said nothing. Mycroft shifted again trying to make his self appear a bit taller despite his growing human form. It didn't feel necessary to the Guardian because the other angel was already taller than him. "You're no longer watching the rogue from Heaven."

The Guardian was confused. "I'm an active role now?"

"No no, still quite passive." Mycroft waved a hand but then paused as he heard a sound. Both angels turned their heads as the door burst open and a child barged into the room. The rogue's looks had changed dramatically since the Guardian had last seen his charge. He had wild dark brown curls that covered his head and parted messily to one side. He needed a hair cut as the fringe of curls occasionally fell over bright shifting blue eyes. The Guardian could see the angelic soul within this child causing the shift in his eye colour. At some points it looked bright blue and then green and occasionally a light grey. The Human-Angel wasn't older than seven human years in this body.

"Mycroft." The rogue called looking rather put-out over whatever he was about to confront his brother with before he paused. His wings –far too big for the containment of a mortal body- expanded in interest behind him at the sight of his teenage brother with another person that was not their human parents. The heart in the Guardian's body raced at those eyes alighting on him for the very first time. "Who is this?" The boy asked with an unreadable tone.

"Sherlock," Mycroft reprimanded his brother, "you're not supposed to just barge in."

"Who is this, Mycroft?" Sherlock –as the rogue was named in this lifetime- demanded again.

Mycroft took a breath and lied smoothly, "This is John Watson, an acquaintance." The Guardian –John, as he was now dubbed- blinked but tried not to give away the lie.

"Hello." He said. Sherlock's eyes studied him the way all muses of science looked at things: like they could be picked apart with their minds so that they could see how the thing worked. John was surprised that the Human-Angel had maintained that ability. Perhaps he should've known he would've maintained some of his angelic qualities despite his form.

"Hello." Sherlock finally greeted back. He instantly disregarded his presence after and turned back to Mycroft with the childish pout back on his face. "Mother and father are calling for you. They're going to come to me soon if you don't go to them and I want to be left _alone_." John saw the interested sparkle in the rogue's eyes. The child had recently received an amateur chemist kit and no doubt was eager to learn all he could with the chemicals. John knew the boy enough to know that it would only entertain him for a few hours before he would be searching for more dangerous chemicals.

"Yes, I'm going." Mycroft stood up and the Guardian followed suit. Sherlock didn't bother to wait for them and left closing the door behind him. Mycroft studied the door momentarily before murmuring lowly, "While the rogue is in this house I can watch over him myself. You need to watch over him when he leaves. Take any action necessary to keep him under watch."

"Yes, sir." John answered in a low voice.

"It'll be a number of human years so make yourself useful. Sherlock will be a handful in this era." Mycroft began to walk to the door when John stopped him. He arched an eyebrow at John's amused look.

"You may want to hide your more dangerous chemicals." He warned before he disappeared.

The Guardian wasn't sure how he was supposed to make himself useful. What exactly did Mycroft mean? The Guardian was not an active angel –he wasn't meant to interact with humans. He was not "born" and yet here he walked among humans and felt what they did. He didn't know what to do. How did humans know what to do with their lot in life? Did they just decide a path they wanted to follow and take it? Did they not know what their ultimate goal held? Many humans, the Guardian had noticed during his time in watching and not experiencing, completely missed their happiest end. Did they even know? Did they know what end they were trying to achieve?

He paused outside of a park and stared up at the sky in dawning realization. Maybe that was what free will was all about? They didn't know where they were going but they still made a shot in the dark and hoped for the best. Is that what the Guardian was supposed to do? Be human. What better way to prepare to be by the Human-Angel's side than to learn to be human?

"John Watson…" The Guardian breathed. It was a common and unassuming name. Who could possibly know he wasn't human? John Watson was an average man who had plenty of knowledge off-hand. An active-role angel the Guardian was not but John Watson was a human who could be as active or passive as he wished. John Watson wanted to learn how to live like a human.

For the first time in the Guardian's short existence he could fulfill any desire he wished.

Manipulating records was a small feat for the Guardian with Mycroft's limited influence (now that the angel was twenty-one and moving up in society). John Watson now existed and was at the age of eighteen years. John already knew he didn't want an easy or simple life. He needed to be prepared for the hectic existence that the rogue would grow into (already John had seen the boy try to solve a murder that involved a death in a pool but the police didn't want to listen to him) so he needed experience. Doctor, he thought, would be an excellent pursuit. The rogue was an accident waiting to happen –if he didn't hurt others first- so it seemed like a perfect idea.

Medical training took a number of years of John's life but John felt he couldn't complain even as his body experienced aches and pains he'd never felt in Heaven. His body complained when he didn't sleep. He had to eat and drink often or else his form fell ill and weak. He had needs to fulfill, not just desires. It was a strange feeling. For a short time he grew frustrated at his flaws before that quickly simmered down. The pros to this life far outweighed the cons.

John adjusted to humanity well and soon enough craved more. He wanted to experience more sensations. London, England just didn't have the excitement he desired. He knew that even his own charge would probably find London boring (after all, the Guardian hadn't heard anything about the Human-Angel from Mycroft in a while). The idea of going and joining the humans' army was toyed with in his mind. He considered that he would probably be deployed far away from the rogue and wouldn't be able to leave at any moment to influence him. He would be leaving his post to pursue selfish desires. After all, Mycroft was sure to give him back control very, very soon. On top of all of that, becoming a soldier was not only making the Guardian active (killing humans was certainly taking an active role) but would make him learn the ways of the soldiers: two roles he was never supposed to even consider.

It was perfect.

When John Watson enlisted in the army and was deployed he expected to see Mycroft at any moment breathing down his neck in fury. After John killed his first human but saved another's life in the same five minutes he almost expected to be struck by the hand of his Father. He had taken the life from a person meant to live and exchanged it for a man who was supposed to die on this battlefield. He had changed the design. But no reprimands came. No reprimands or anger or consequences ever came for John or the Guardian. Soon enough all thoughts of other angels or duties were blown away as his duties and concerns on the battlefield dominated his life. Only on a few occasions did John hesitate in what he was doing as he sensed a need from his charge back in London. He always dismissed them. Mycroft was sure to help, he always thought offhandedly before returning to suturing a gunshot to the leg.

_Consequences can never fully be avoided even for an angel_, the Guardian realized as he awoke on a bed he was so used to working by many months later. Pain ripped and screamed through his body as he gritted his teeth. He gasped for air and barely turned his head to see bandages covering his shoulder and chest. He was in shock. He had been shot and injured by a bullet. How was that possible? Why wasn't he healing? He was not human, only in the form of one! Still the wound didn't heal any faster than a human's would. His punishment had arrived in an unexpected way.

It took too long for John to regain proper movement in his shoulder and arm. A limp –psychosomatic, a therapist called it- developed in his leg. John was crippled. He was removed from the battlefield and sent home.

* * *

**Part 2**

For the first few months John found himself incapable of doing much more than going through the motions to sustain his human form –and even then he ate far less than he really should have. He just never felt like eating. His life was a blur of nightmares and passing people. He was left without a purpose. John Watson was no longer a soldier and the Guardian had for the most part abandoned the role he was created for. He couldn't even try to fall back on watching over the Human-Angel. His wings haven't worked properly since the damage to his shoulder.

He contemplated if angels could kill themselves and where they would go if they did.

John shook his head to remove such thoughts from his mind. _I will find something to do._ He told himself and limped from the house to go on a walk. He needed to watch how pedestrian humans managed to live day-to-day lives when some of them didn't have a purpose. John no longer knew how to live like a normal human. The Guardian couldn't comprehend this era with all of its possibilities but hoops a human had to jump through just to reach the very beginnings of those possibilities. How could John live in such a bland world when a part of him longed for the heat of the desert and the possibility of meeting death (even if it was only human death) looming over his shoulder? There he WAS the Angel of Death for many people. He had chosen who lived and who died. The thrill vibrated through every fiber of his soul. How could he have possibly been content with a _passive_ role? It was utterly ridiculous to him now. How could his Father possibly think that a soul like the Guardian's could possibly be passive for all of his existence?

"John? John Watson?" John pulled himself to a stop and looked around in confusion. His eyes alighted on a heavy-set man clambering to his feet and walking towards him. He was certainly familiar and after a moment the man introduced himself in John's life again. Mike Stamford was a mate of John's from back when he was training to be a doctor. The two had lost contact rather completely when John left the country –not that John had kept contact with anybody else- and John found it a little comforting to find someone from his "past life". Still he felt awkward and as if he didn't belong in this man's company any longer. He didn't feel like he belonged in civilian life. He told Mike he had changed and how now he was barely coping. Soon he would need to find another home. The thought of a flatmate popped up that John denied. He doubted anybody would want to live with someone like him.

Mike chuckled a bit. John looked at him and hid a bit of a smile at his friend's amusement. "What?" He asked wanting to know why Mike thought it was so funny.

"Well it's just, you're the second person to say that to me today." Mike admitted.

John frowned a bit and tilted his head questioningly. "Who was the first?"

The grin on Mike's face was enough to perk John's interest. He looked like he had a great secret. "Why don't you come with me and find out? He's at Bart's right now." Mike stood up and waited for John to join him. John stood as well but didn't follow after when Mike started walking.

"What's his name?" John asked. Mike stopped and waved for him to follow.

"I'll show you. I can't tell you about this bloke because you wouldn't believe half of what I tell you!"

"Mike." John tried again and shifted to better support his lame leg. Mike gave him a look and John sighed. "I've become rather cautious because of my time at war. I just want the man's name first."

A sympathetic glaze went over Mike's eyes before he stuffed his hands in his coat. "Sherlock Holmes. That's his name." John looked at the human sharply and in shock. He hadn't heard Sherlock's name in a very long time. He hadn't thought he would ever see his charge ever again considering what he had done. Somehow the two had been led back to each other though. Were such coincidences possible? There had never been such things as "coincidences" in Heaven because all lives were planned out at least in a general sense but both John and Sherlock were invisible on the strands of fate. The two of them weren't supposed to exist among humanity. How could their meeting possibly be planned?

The Guardian wasn't ready to meet his charge again; not as he was. If he walked in front of that majestic angel as broken, as pathetic, as _suicidal_ as he was then he wouldn't forgive himself. He needed to take care of some things first. He needed to be worthy of being the Human-Angel's Guardian all over again.

John shook his head. "Sorry, mate. Not today."

Mike frowned. "You've met before? He tends to have that impression on people." John could tell the human knew from experience. He wondered what kind of impression the Human-Angel was leaving on humanity.

"No, never met." He lied smoothly. "I'm just not quite ready for a flatmate yet." He pretended to look at his watch. "I may take you up on that offer later though."

"He's not always at Bart's." Mike protested as John began to limp towards and past him.

"Sorry, Mike! I'll e-mail you, alright?" John glanced back and waved.

"Yeah, alright!" He waved back with confusion on his face. John faced forward again with a determined frown. He needed to find a way to get in contact with Mycroft again. He'd long since lost track of both of the Holmes brothers and hadn't particularly cared as he was caught up in his own life and experiences. He knew that Mycroft would be aiming for a fairly exclusive government position (it would put him in the perfect place to perform his jobs, whatever they were) so John doubted he could get into contact with him through human means. He would need to use his angelic abilities.

Back in his flat he inhaled slowly as he closed the curtains over the windows and focused on his soul and wings. His human form faded away as his wings slowly began to stretch. His shoulder –permanently injured- protested at the stretching and John winced as his human form attached itself to him again. He collapsed down onto one knee and gripped his cane like a lifeline. Air rushing into his lungs didn't seem to enter fast enough and he clenched his teeth.

"Hello, Guardian." John started and turned around quickly. Before him stood a muse of the arts. Its form was a feminine one with long strangely-coloured hair. It started as black and descended downward in shifting colours that reminded John of motor oil. He was unsure if the colours were from dyeing or if her angelic form caused it to look so. Her eyes were so pale they were practically white but he saw the golden sparkles in the opal-esque eyes.

The Guardian pulled himself to his feet with agonizing effort as his wings shrank and retracted back to his body. Echoes of pain whispered from his shoulder still. "Am I finally going to get spited?" He asked.

The artistic muse quirked her head slightly in a confused manner with a small smile. "You don't seem scared?"

"It's been coming for a long time."

She smiled fully this time in understanding and chuckled a bit before walking around to glance at the flat. Her body moved gracefully and undulated as if it was impossible to walk without dancing. Unlike science muses who were stiff and analytical, John noticed that artistic muses were flowing and always changing –almost like they were made or air or water but acted like fire. One never knew when they would turn on you. John personally thought they were a hassle to handle no matter how much more powerful they were than him.

He cleared his throat as she became distracted with some thought and she startled before turning back to face him. She laughed at herself. "Sorry! I just had an idea! Anyway," she smoothed her dress and pulled out a pencil before twirling it deftly around her fingers, "you can call me Chrissy –it's short for Chrysanthemum- and surprisingly enough you're _not_ getting spited today!" She tossed the pencil in the air where it hit the ceiling and she clapped once cheerfully for him.

"I'm not?" John asked and trying his best to ignore the pencil that kept marking his ceiling as it hit.

"No." She put the pencil back into the folds of her skirt and gazed up at the markings on the ceiling. She hummed once and nodded –John wondered what exactly she saw- before she looked back at him. "We heard that you wanted to go back to your job watching over the Human-Angel. Well, you kind of need a bit of punishment first so here," Chrissy produced a paper with an address on it as well as a picture of a woman. She had the same blonde hair as John and smiled cheerfully from around the shoulders of some girl friends, "you're also to be guiding her."

"Two jobs? I'm not really a Guardian Angel you know, right?

"Of course I know that!" She snapped before quickly covering it back up with an apology. "Sorry. Emotions are crazy when we're in human forms." She shrugged helplessly. John nodded in understanding. "You just need to…lead her a little down the right path. Help her out and you'll be back with Sherlock in no time!"

"You called him Sherlock." John noticed. He frowned and crossed his arms. "Exactly why are artistic muses so concerned with the Human-Angel anyhow? He's been the science muses' issues for centuries." The Guardian never needed to work with artistic muses much in his job. They never cared for the Human-Angel (although all angels worried about the creature) so why now?

She blushed a little and smiled shyly. "The Human-Angel has drifted into our territory some in this lifetime. He plays the violin beautifully! Humanity has made his stuffy science muse soul beautiful over the lifetimes!"

The Guardian blinked a few times in surprise. Never before had the rogue ever drifted into the artistic area of life. Art takes emotions which were certainly not the area scientific muses drifted into. He found himself intensely curious to hear a creature like the Human-Angel play an instrument.

"Anyway get to that and we'll pull a favour to help you out later, okay?" Chrissy smiled before her wings spread and she was gone without another word. The lingering scent of oil paints filled the room before fading on a breeze. John glanced at the picture again before sighing. He wasn't looking forward to dealing a human under watch by artistic muses. This was going to give him a headache, he was sure.

* * *

Harriet Watson (it was coincidence of the last name) was taller than John by a few inches and had laugh lines as well as crow's feet in her thirty-nine year old face. She was a mess to look at when John appeared in her house –he could use his wings for a very short distance after getting used to the pain- right in the same room as the woman. The stench of alcohol was strong enough to get a lightweight drinker drunk off of the scent. Bottles littered the ground but they were in the direction of the trashcan so the room was still rather clean. Glass breaking drew John back to the woman gaping at him. She didn't even scream. Perhaps it was the wings that were still exposed on John's back.

"Hello." He greeted. "Harriet, right?"

"H-Harry." She corrected with a tremulous voice. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm John. I'm, erm," John ran his tongue over his teeth as he wondered how to word this. His head ticked to the side in a bit of a spasm before he continued, "I'm your Guardian Angel, I suppose."

Harry frowned and narrowed her eyes in confusion. "You 'suppose'?"

"Well being a Guardian Angel isn't my duty. I'm here to help you in whatever way you need." He glanced pointedly at the alcohol as he approached her. The tear lines on her face were more obvious up close. "So what happened to you?"

"An angel with a limp. I must be really drunk."

"I can come back when you're sober." John snapped.

She shook her head and wiped her eyes before she hiccupped a sob. "No, you can st-stay. It'd be nice if _someone_ stayed with me!"

John put a sympathetic hand on hers and she blinked at the physical contact. He was starting to grasp what was wrong with her. The question was whether the drinking was the cause or the effect of whoever left her. "Talk to me."

Harry Watson had split up somewhat recently with her love Clara and was getting a divorce. The two had been trying to avoid it but Clara could only handle so much. Harry said it was because of different reasons but John could read between the lines enough to know that Harry was an alcoholic. Clara probably couldn't convince Harry to stop and didn't want to deal with a drunkard wife any longer. Harry couldn't put up with an unsupportive wife and, terrified of being abandoned, instead left Clara first. John didn't pity Harry because she didn't really deserve it. In fact the woman frustrated him a bit. During his medical training he learned all about the negative effects of various narcotics on the human body and he never could understand substance dependency. The human mind baffled him. Why couldn't Harry just not drink alcohol any longer? He wasn't sure how he was supposed to help a woman he didn't fully understand. Without any other option, he decided to just be a sympathetic ear.

He stayed with Harry all night listening to her rants and slowly as she sobered up –John refused to let her drink while he was there- the rants about Clara became anger at herself and self-pity. John only sighed and rubbed her back as she vomited once again into a nearby trashcan. "Should I call you an ambulance? You're rather green." He frowned and eyed her while checking her temperature. He picked up a nearby mobile but Harry scowled.

"Don't! I'm fine! I just need to sleep it off." She climbed into her bed with her clothes still on. "And take that damn phone with you. At least I'll know how to contact you."

"I don't need a mobile let alone yours. What about you?"

"I'll buy a new one." Her face crumpled some. "Clara gave me that as a present. I don't want it anymore. Please, just take it." John ran a quick hand through his cropped hair before pocketing the phone. He could at least get rid of the phone later. He was exhausted and had a bit of a trip back to his flat. He hated the place but sleep was calling him and he certainly wasn't going to stay there.

"Get some rest, Har." He told her and stood. "I need to go. I'll visit again soon, alright? Stay off the bottle." Harry hummed and John accepted it despite the unconvincing tone. The woman was passing out. He did a quick check of her before he spread his wings and appeared outside. It was that dubious time between early morning and the middle of the night. He'd been there far longer than he expected to be. Harry would be a big project that John didn't appreciate the artistic muses for putting on him. He fell asleep on the ride back to his flat in the cab while he was musing about his current situation and was awoken by an irate driver before John paid and went into his flat to collapse on his bed and slept.

He woke up the next day late. It was already nearing supper time and his bladder and stomach were protesting. His shoulder ached from using his wings so much. In all John felt like shit and blamed it on all of the activity and sleeping badly. He'd woken up a couple of times because of nightmares but he fell back asleep just as quickly. At least that was one blessing. He grunted as he got up and used the bathroom before he glanced at the kitchen. Nothing sounded appetizing despite being hungry. In spite of his soreness he decided to go for a walk to work up an appetite. Eventually it will get to the point where his stomach will agree to just about anything to eat.

Fresh air made John long to fly again. He hated having wings and never really being able to use them. They were a constant presence at his back –hidden well beneath his clothing- and almost seemed to taunt him. It was like keeping a limb constantly bent. He wanted to stretch them properly. A part of him wanted to return to Heaven but John rejected that idea. He had been sent to Earth so he couldn't just retreat back home. It wouldn't heal him anyway. He had a job to do here.

_Well two, now. _He corrected himself and reached into his coat pocket where Harry's mobile still rest as he came to a stop under a streetlamp. He noted idly that it was dark enough for streetlamps to be necessary as he looked at it and realized it was a rather new version of these mobiles. On the back there was an engraving from Clara to Harry. John sighed and pocketed the device again before he moved to turn a corner. He could understand why the human would want to rid herself of the gift. He was sure that it was expensive though so he decided to hang onto it. Harry may want it back for the memories at a later date.

"I never forget a face." John froze as a deep voice addressed him. He didn't recognize it and turned to see the owner of the voice. He blinked in surprise as the bright soul of the Human-Angel made itself known to John. Large rustic red wings with white trim stretched out behind the man creating shadows on the walls John was sure nobody but him could see. The rogue was much taller now than when John had last seen him. He was lanky with long limbs and sharp features. The eyes of the Human-Angel still swirled and shifted subtly every few moments. His unruly hair was much tidier now –the look of a grown man rather than a wild child. Still the same look was held in those eyes as when John had last looked into them: guarded and analytical.

"You recognize me." Sherlock continued and stepped forward into the streetlight to be seen fully. He wore a long black Belstaff coat buttoned closed. A scarf was tied around his neck. The wings retracted slightly but still hovered giving away Sherlock's caution.

"It's been a long time but yes, I remember you." John agreed. He would never forget his charge.

"Strange considering most people would forget meeting a sibling of an acquaintance they had met briefly." Sherlock eyed him.

"Mycroft is not a person you forget easily."

"You call him Mycroft." He noted.

"It was the name he gave me. Can't say I remember yours, though." John lied blinking a couple of times and deciding to at least pretend he didn't know the soul that resided in this man. Even if he had seen this soul through its many lifetimes, Sherlock had a personality that John had no idea about. All he really knew for certain was that he was interested in something science-related, had a curious mind, and could play the violin so brilliantly that the muses of art swooned.

A small quirk of his mouth was the only reaction he got. "Yes you do. You can't lie to me."

"Well Sherlock is a strange name too." John defended resisting a laugh. His heart was thudding with excitement that John had not felt in a long time. Being in his charge's presence and under those eyes thrilled him. Finally he was being seen and was not standing on the side watching.

"And yours is a common one. Bland, unassuming, John Watson."

"Could be worse. I could have the last name of Smith."

This time Sherlock really did smile a bit. He lifted his head and glanced around them. The street had plenty of people milling about in the early evening hours. John looked around as well and noticed he was on Baker Street. He wasn't sure when he had wandered there. The aches from earlier had faded away replaced by a dull throb of soreness from his legs and his lame leg in particular.

Sherlock looked down at him again –the man was taller than him by a head- and asked suddenly, "Care to join me for dinner?"

John's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't know anything about you, you don't know anything about me, and suddenly you're asking me out?"

"I know plenty about you." Sherlock denied. "I know you're an army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him -possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife- and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic -quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John stared at him utterly shocked. He couldn't comprehend quite what had happened. It took a beat for all of the information and he blinked his way out of a stupor and asked, "H-_How_ did you get all of that?"

"Come with me to dinner and I'll explain. I need a companion to talk to and a skull attracts attention." The man spun on his heel with his coat twirling dramatically behind him before he hurried off down the sidewalk. John didn't hesitate to rush after him as fast as his bad leg could take him. Sherlock was moving fast enough to make the Guardian pant a bit and he began to mutter off to himself, "Who hunts in a crowd? Who do we all trust without actually seeing them? Think, think!"

"I'm sorry, what are you talking about?" John managed out.

"A serial killer, John! The same one from the papers! Haven't you been reading?"

"You mean the suicides?"

"Not suicides, no. Murders!" Sherlock entered a restaurant and pulled off his scarf with John following behind him and looking around. It was a quaint little restaurant with an Italian theme. A sign nearby exclaimed the name Angelo's. The attendant in the front immediately directed Sherlock and John into a booth right next to the front door and looking out a window.

"Since when have they been murders? I haven't seen anything like that." John hadn't been paying too close attention to the news but he would've noticed if the peculiar "serial suicides" had been renamed to "serial murders".

"Discovered it just tonight when the police called me to the most recent crime scene. The murderer leads his victim into empty locations and the victims take the pill. Question is _how_ does the killer get them into these locations? Why would they just go with him?"

"'Him'? You're sure it's a man?"

"Statistically more likely." Sherlock explained looking out the window.

"Sherlock!" A man appeared to them and shook Sherlock's hands.

"Angelo, hello. John, this is Angelo." John nodded to Angelo in greeting.

"This man got me off a murder charge!" Angelo told John. John raised his eyebrows, impressed.

"I proved to the police that Angelo had been in another part of town housebreaking." Sherlock explained.

"He kept me out of jail."

"Well sort of." The Human-Angel corrected. His wings fluttered a little pleased at the praise.

"Anything you want is free! For you and your date!" Angelo said to Sherlock with a wide grin. John sputtered a bit. "I'll go get a candle! It's more romantic." He moved off quickly as John protested against the thought that they were on a date.

He sighed in frustration at being ignored and noticed Sherlock had gone back to looking back out of the window. A waitress stopped by and John placed an order while the other angel waved off the thought of food. When she was gone John cleared his throat. "You said you would explain."

Sherlock's brows furrowed in confusion and glanced at him before remembering. "Ah, yes. Simple answer is I deduced it."

"Deduced? You saw all of those facts on me?" John knew plenty about how scientific muses could do such things but he hadn't realized how accurately they could draw conclusions. How could Sherlock possibly realize he was in the Army? How was he certain the limp was psychosomatic?

"Yes."

"How?"

Sherlock looked at him finally. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk but when you became distracted by your phone you stood without issue -like you've forgotten about it- so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Army. Now, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan." John answered immediately even as he sat awed. "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Obvious." Sherlock stated. "Then there's your brother." He held out his hand, "Your phone." John dug into his pocket and handed it to the man. Sherlock flipped it over to get a good look then clicked onto it before continuing, "It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But your clothes say you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting across from me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving?" John guessed.

"Harry Watson — clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father — this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but more likely its close family. Now, Clara — who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently — this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then — six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left _him_, he would've kept it. People do; sentiment. But _no_, he wanted rid of it — he left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch." He took a breath and paused to give John a once over. John barely noticed the water arriving at the table for him. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock. "You've been to see him recently and didn't enjoy your visit. The state of your clothing and the bags under your eyes tell me that. The scent of alcohol lingers on you –the strong stuff- but there's none on your breath so it wasn't you who's done the drinking –must be your brother then. Bad visit, drinking, absent wife, beat up phone: your brother's an alcoholic."

"Beat up?" John thought the phone looked to be in rather good shape. Sherlock showed him the side of the phone.

"Power connection — tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them." He placed the phone back on the table. John grabbed it but found his eyes glued back to the man across from him. He'd never actually been led step-by-step through the thought process of a scientific muse. They would tear apart those in front of them and never say what conclusions they came to –the only way to know that they _had_ picked the person or thing apart was how they seemed to psychically know how that thing functioned. The fact that Sherlock could do such a process even while human was amazing. He'd always thought that the artistic muses' work was beautiful but this gift that Sherlock had just shown him was gorgeous.

"That…" John swallowed and glanced down at his phone in an effort not to gape, "was amazing."

"You really think so?" Sherlock deadpanned and his eyes flickered to John before looking away again out the window.

"Yes, it was extraordinary. Quite…extraordinary." John didn't have a better word for it.

Sherlock gave a sly smile to the window. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?" John asked looking out the window as well. The scent of tomato sauce gave him notice that his food had arrived.

"'Piss off'." John gave a helpless chuckle. Humans couldn't appreciate true beauty. He grinned at the man across from him and shook his head. Sherlock grinned back at him and nodded to the food. "Eat. You're hungry."

"You're not going to eat?" John asked as he obediently picked up his fork and stabbed a portion of his pasta.

"Eating slows me down." John frowned at such an irrational statement but decided to get a few mouthfuls in. He glared balefully at the candle that had appeared on their table sometime during their conversation. The Human-Angel's eyes flicked all over outside obviously trying to figure something out. "What did you do in the army?" He asked after a few minutes.

"I was an army doctor."

"Any good?" Sherlock turned to him apparently interested now. His eyes swirled in the candlelight to a shade of blue.

"Very good." John put down his fork and sat up straighter.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Well, yes." It came with the line of duty.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Sherlock looked amused now. He was barely containing a smirk.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John nodded stone-faced even as he lied completely. Sherlock's eyes narrowed knowingly before he began to fidget with a fork.

"You have questions." It wasn't a question.

"What do you do? I don't expect just anybody to be allowed on a crime scene."

"What do you think?" Sherlock's eyes looked at him expectantly. He was being tested. John would make sure to pass his charge's first test.

"I'd say private detective…"

"But…?" Sherlock prompted.

"But the police don't go to private detectives." John finished.

Sherlock looked pleased. "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job."

John smirked a bit. Leave it to the Human-Angel to become so bored with all of the job opportunities in the world that he invented his own. "What does that mean?"

"It means whenever the police are out of their depth — which is always — they consult me."

"Impressive."

"I know."

"You're modest."

"And you're a liar."

"Good thing you can tell." John popped another piece of his dinner into his mouth as Sherlock eyed him with an unreadable look on his face. Their eyes locked and they wordlessly judged each other before Sherlock ripped his gaze away to see something out of the window. "Look there, John."

John should've expected that he wouldn't be able to finish his meal. If he wasn't too busy gaping at this wonder of an oddity with the name of Sherlock Holmes then he was suddenly dashing across London trying to keep up with the man as he leaped over rooftops and avoided cars trying to chase down one specific taxi cab that may be housing a murderer. Blood pumped through John's veins with each pound of his feet and dodge of either Sherlock's wings or an oncoming person. His own wings itched to spread as wind rushed past his body. It was exhilarating. He never wanted to stop. For the first time since he first began acting like a human, John finally felt like he had shed all of his restraints that he hadn't even realized had been put on him.

The lead ended up a false one as only a Californian ended up in the back of the cab. Sherlock muttered to himself even as he flashed a badge. "Where did you even get this?" John demanded as he and Sherlock walked away from the cab. He snatched the badge and saw an unfamiliar face on it along with the title Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. "You stole this?"

"You can keep it; I've plenty at the flat." Sherlock panted slightly and spun around no doubt looking for a new route to follow. John couldn't resist laughing at the ridiculousness of this situation. Sherlock stopped. "What?"

"Nothing just…'Welcome to London'." John quoted what Sherlock said to cover up his mistake with the passenger of the cab and began to laugh a bit harder. Sherlock let out a grin before he noticed a police officer being pointed in their direction.

"Ready to go again?" He asked John.

"After you!" John agreed and the two took off running again to some destination Sherlock no doubt knew. After dodging through a couple of alleys and crossing some streets soon John recognized where they were but still they didn't fully stop running or jogging until they entered a black door labeled "221B". Inside the two broke down in giggles while trying to gain their breaths back. John could hardly believe the night that he had just experienced. His first meeting with Sherlock in years and he'd had dinner with the man, had his life deduced and placed on the table in front of him, chased a presumed criminal that was in a car down on foot, and was now giggling while high on leftover adrenaline with the Human-Angel he'd always wanted to stand next to.

The two wiped their eyes as they leaned against the entryway's wall and looked at each other. John had never seen the Human-Angel look as giddy as he was now in a very long time. His eyes rapidly shifted in colour and his wings were tucked against his back trembling with emotion. His cheeks were rosy from the wind and running and his hair was wind-swept. John doubted he was much better. He could feel his wings –shrunken as they were- shivering against his back. He needed to stretch them out as soon as he was alone. He felt that he would actually be able to this time. He felt whole again.

"That," John spoke as he finally gasped back his air and his laughter dulled some, "was ridiculous."

"You're the one who invaded Afghanistan." Another wave of giggles bubbled through John before he bowed his head to regain control. He sniffed once and met Sherlock's warm look again before straightening.

"Well! This has been a fun evening."

"The most fun I've had in quite a while." Sherlock agreed stepping off of the wall as well.

"I should probably get going." John said and jerked his head to the door. "You've got a case to get back to."

"Oh certainly." He led John to the door. "Make sure you get your cane from Angelo first." He told him and opened the door to show Angelo outside bundled up. The man grinned and held up John's forgotten cane.

"Sherlock texted me. Said you might be needing this back." He said and handed John the cane. John took it with a pleasantly surprised look. He hadn't even realized he had left without his cane. He had just run all over without his leg once protesting. Even now not a single twinge came from it.

"Cheers!" John said with a grin and Angelo nodded before waving and walking off back his restaurant. John looked at Sherlock and saw the prideful gleam to his eyes. "You're unbelievable." John laughed before he moved with ease down onto the sidewalk and turned back to face the Human-Angel.

"You're welcome." Sherlock said. John ducked his head once and made to walk off when he heard Sherlock call, "Did I get anything wrong?" John turned back around.

"About what?"

"My deductions."

"Oh." John wasn't sure he could burst Sherlock's bubble about Harry. They weren't in the least related but John could see why the man would make that mistake. It would be easier to just call Harry his sister for now. After all, if John was going to be around Sherlock more then he would need excuses to randomly leave to see Harry in the middle of the night without the Human-Angel thinking he was together with the woman. "Harry and me don't get on and I doubt we ever will. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and are getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." Sherlock looked smugly surprised and began to shut the door.

John had to burst the man's bubble at least a bit now. He needed to be knocked down from this pedestal some. John doubted he would get many more shots. "Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock came to a stop and froze for a good two seconds before he opened the door fully again to look at the ground with startled eyes. "Harry's your sister." He stated. He met John's now-smug eyes and scowled begrudgingly. "Sister!" He exclaimed in disbelief and annoyance towards himself. "There's always something!" He slammed the door even before John could say goodnight. John turned and began his walk home feeling satisfied.

What had started out as a bad day had actually ended rather well. John had certainly never expected to reunite with Sherlock in such a way. The Human-Angel seemed to be thriving in this new body and life. There was the glitter of excitement and vibrancy of youth that exuded from the very soul in the body. It was clear Sherlock would not be bored of this life any time soon. The Guardian wasn't surprised. Every time period that had exquisitely new technology and innovation always granted the Human-Angel a long life. Of course that was only if the current life-style that said angel was pursuing was one that wasn't too dangerous. John frowned to himself some. Sherlock's lifestyle was certainly dangerous but for the first time –now that the Guardian himself had experienced it- John understood _why_ the Human-Angel pursued such adrenaline-producing lifestyles. It was addictive.

A phone ringing startled John out of his cheerful musings and he glanced around him to spot a telephone booth. He wondered to himself exactly who would call a public phone booth. Accidental call, perhaps? It was none of his business. As soon as he turned to walk away the ringing stopped. He gave it one wary look before beginning his walk again. A few paces down he heard a phone ringing again. This time it was inside of a diner. Again it was a public phone. John frowned and watched as some worker went to pick it up but the ring cut off abruptly. Suspicion whispered in John's mind as he set a pace again. He expected it the next time the phone rang and he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" It was a man's voice but not one that John recognized and certainly not one he approved of. The tone of voice was very straight-forward with almost no emotion to it other than perhaps quiet confidence.

"Who's this? Who's speaking?" John demanded calmly even while glancing around for any nearby suspicious characters. He could see nobody of interest despite the busy street.

"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?" The voice asked again. The way his name was said gave John a feeling of nostalgia. He felt like he should know the speaker even as logically he knew the voice was unfamiliar. Thinking that there was nothing he could do at the moment but go along with what the man on the phone was saying, John looked up and to the left to spy a CCTV camera pointing his way.

"Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." The voice commanded and a moment later the camera turned away from where it was pointing at John to face a random direction. John's pulse sped up and he pursed his lips a bit. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?" John's eyes jumped to that camera which was again facing him. He hummed his confirmation and immediately that camera swiveled away. "And finally at the top of the building on your right." John didn't even get the chance to respond before that one turned away as well. He was certain no security cameras were watching this area anymore.

"How are you doing this?" John asked keeping his tone steady and the threat out of his voice. Years on the battlefield kept him rather calm in times of threat even as his body was tensed ready for fight or flight (even if he wouldn't literally fly off).

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson." The voice said as a sleek black car pulled up in front of the phone booth. The driver –a male but clearly not the one on the phone- climbed out of the car and opened the back door for John. "I _would_ make some sort of threat," The voice on the phone continued, "but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The line went dead and John hung up the phone. He gazed at the car thoughtful. As begrudging of a thought as it was, the man on the phone was right. Clearly the voice had some power over security –or at least a strong knowledge of computers or both- if he could alter cameras at will and call random street phones. John was sure if he ran for it, he would be hunted down. It would be easier to confront the voice. After all, John Watson was nothing if not brave and so the angel left the phone booth and entered the car.

The interior was just as sleek as the outside with impeccably clean leather seats and a beautiful human texting away on her mobile. John looked around as the door closed and the car started off with barely a sound. The woman didn't even look up at John's entrance and seemed fixated on texting on her Blackberry. She was dressed professionally –which made John consider the former thought of who this powerful mystery man could be- and ignored the world. There were a few moments of quiet where John saw that they were headed for a more industrialized part of the city. Buildings were becoming a bit dingier and smaller to make way for factories and car parks.

Finding nothing to do John decided to get some answers out of this human, "Hello."

The woman smiled brightly but distractedly at him before looking back down at the phone. "Hi."

"What's your name then?" He added a hint of charm to his words in hopes that a bit of flirtation will coax more out of her.

The woman hesitated a second too long before saying, "Anthea."

John didn't believe her for a moment but asked politely, "Is that your real name?"

Not-Anthea smiled again but this time with more amusement. "No."

John nodded and looked out the window again. He didn't have a clue of where he was. "I'm John."

"Yes. I know."

He dropped the flirtation act. "Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all…" She looked at him again with that same knowing smile before dropping it to her Blackberry again, "John."

"Okay." He resisted the urge to huff and looked around once more as the car slowed definitively and slid into an empty car lot. He couldn't see much ahead of them from his angle but he spotted a man –most likely the voice on the phone- standing and waiting. When the car pulled to a stop Not-Anthea climbed out and opened the door for John. She waited only just long enough for him to get out before she got back in and closed the door with a single motion for John to go to the man.

John walked forward without fear as he finally saw the voice on the phone clearly. Large tawny, black, and white wings –bleached and unnatural-looking in the lighting- were spread in a show of dominance and displeasure despite the calm façade on the man's human face. The wings were somewhat transparent. John was impressed that the angel was maintaining his human body even while his angelic soul was leaking from his back. He didn't know they could do that. His own wings trembled against his back as he resisted the urge to match the confrontation in front of him. Mycroft had certainly changed in his aging since John had last seen him –back when the man was twenty-one and John eighteen- but John supposed that was what happened to those who needed to appear human. His body had only altered through exercise and slight age after puberty and the Afghan sun took their toll. Mycroft stood with his head held proudly high and his back straight despite the umbrella that looked almost mockingly like a cane in his hand. John had left his own cane in the car. He wondered how the humans in the car felt upon seeing this man with his wings abroad.

Mycroft pointed with the umbrella at the black chair sitting innocently in front of him. "Have a seat, Guardian."

"I have a phone now, you know." John said instead and came to a stop beside the chair. He didn't feel like sitting even if Mycroft was his superior. "You could've called me on my, you know, phone." He shrugged only half-hearted in his suggestion.

"When avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." He motioned to the lot they were in with a small pleasant fake smile. It didn't slip past John that Mycroft had called the Human-Angel by his human name in their conversation. That was a first. "Take a seat."

"I don't wanna sit down." John kept his back straight, his gaze quietly defiant.

Mycroft's smile turned a bit strained. "Here I came prepared for a crippled angel. What has happened to your limp, Guardian?" He asked politely.

"I would tell you but I _think_ you already know." John smiled back and let it drop quickly. "The power show wasn't necessary."

"Wasn't it? It certainly has been a number of human years since we've had contact, Guardian. This in spite of the fact we are on the same side." Mycroft's voice held a hint of the scorn John had been waiting for for years. "You've been busy, Guardian, or would you prefer John? I thought you taking the human name I gave you was rather amusing."

"Either name is fine, thank you." John responded with the same icy civility Mycroft was giving him. He felt at a disadvantage in front of this muse. He didn't like feeling at a disadvantage. Never before had he felt this way around muses until after he had been in war and had been in charge for once in his life. Now he felt like he was being shoved back into a box he no longer fit in as he stood confronted with his role in the angelic hierarchy. "I'm both, after all."

"Wrong, you are the Guardian." Mycroft snapped and then restrained himself again. John was startled by the sudden lash of emotions. Mycroft must be more furious than he had originally let on. It seemed even this angel didn't have full control over the overwhelming human emotions that come with the form they were in. Mycroft's eyes narrowed in warning no doubt not missing John's train of thoughts. "You're rather brave acting the way you are in front of me."

"You're not very frightening."

"The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He gazed at John sternly.

John resisted a scowl. He needed to keep himself controlled. "Those are our brothers and sisters you're insulting."

"Only some of them are _your_ brothers and sisters, Guardian, if any at all. You would do well to remember."

John didn't bother to hide his anger at that statement. While he was still in Heaven the Guardian never really met active muses and perhaps this was why. They were tainted –just a tiny bit but tainted nonetheless- by the poisons of humanity. John may not be an Original –like some of the soldiers of Heaven who had replaced Fallen ones- but that did not mean he was not their brother. It wasn't until he was here on Earth did John realize that there were some angels who didn't look at all of their brethren with the same eyes. Of course Mycroft would treat him differently because he was not only a different rank but he was a different "breed" of muse. He was created to replace the Human-Angel in the patchwork of Heaven but was only charged with watching and influencing one human. No other passive angel did that.

"What have you brought me here for?" He asked keeping his temper under control even as he glared.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft commanded. His wings were lifted in a show of power. Only fear that his wings would not fully expand kept John from retaliating with his own show.

"Why?" John tilted his head and blinked a couple times quickly. "He's my charge."

"You abandoned your post long ago. He's my charge now."

"Yours? You're busy with other work." Mycroft may be an active angel but he certainly wasn't a Guardian angel. There was no way he could be watching over Sherlock like the Human-Angel needed.

"Yes, but you left and so I was the only one able and willing to take over. I've been watching over my younger brother for quite some time and I must say I'm doing a _far_ better job than you have."

"How can you do a better job for this life if I haven't even gotten the chance to try yet?" John demanded angrily.

"You had your chance, Guardian." Mycroft's voice was ice cold now. John froze at the tone. There was more to that tone than the angel was letting on. He narrowed his eyes a bit.

"What do you mean?" He coaxed.

"While you were off playing soldier with the humans, Sherlock turned to drugs."

John huffed a laugh. "You're joking, right? That guy, a user?"

Mycroft smiled but it wasn't amused in the least. "I'm dead serious." John's face quickly composed itself. "He needed you but you weren't there so _I _had to intervene and wean him myself. I'm relieving you of your duties with him in this life. He's my charge now."

"You can't just take away my duty!" John objected. "I was _literally_ created to watch over him."

"And a swell job you've done." He congratulated sarcastically.

"I may not have been around in this lifetime but that's because I've never had to watch over him in this form!" John motioned to himself and moved to pace his anger out but kept himself still. "You told me to make myself useful to him! The man chases serial killers around on foot. What good would I have been if I hadn't learned how to fight?"

"It is not you duty to learn how to fight. You are a _sidekick_, if you want to put it that way."

"Sorry, but I'm not like that anymore." John finished his tirade. The two stared each other down. Mycroft didn't speak anymore. "Are we done?"

"You tell me." The angel challenged. John took a deep breath and then nodded sharply before walking stiffly back towards the car. Mycroft said nothing at his departure and Anthea climbed out of the car as John approached.

"I'm to take you home." She told him as he climbed in on the other side and slammed the door shut. She followed him in on the other side. The car began to pull out even before she asked, "Address?"

"Take me to Baker Street. Two-Two-One-Be Baker Street but first I need to stop by my flat first." Not-Anthea nodded and relayed the address to the driver. John ignored her presence pointedly as he seethed to himself. John had been wrong to avoid meeting his charge after all of this time. It was no wonder Sherlock had ended up with such a dangerous job when he had someone like _Mycroft_ influencing his life. Who was Mycroft to scold John for trying to be an angel he wasn't when Mycroft himself was doing the same thing? Exactly how the angel was influencing his human brother was a questionable thought, though. Active muses didn't give nudges; they made change happen in whatever way they needed. John doubted that Sherlock would just lie back and let himself be told what to do.

"Yes, sir?" John glanced over as he saw Anthea answer her phone. It must have been on silent or vibrate because John certainly didn't hear it. Then again with her constantly looking at the screen it wasn't like she could possibly miss a call. John watched as her face paled a bit. "I-I don't know, sir. The last they checked he was at Baker Street." The Guardian stiffened to attention then and dashed out of the car as it pulled to a stop in front of his flat. It immediately drove off as he charged up some stairs and into his flat.

He tossed his cane somewhere near the bed and ripped open his desk drawer to place his laptop on top of the desk. His gun –an illegal momento from his army life- was checked for bullets and that the safety was on before he put it into the waist of his pants. It had been so long since his senses had been honed to the Human-Angel that he had forgotten what it felt like to realize his charge was in need of guidance because he was about to do a particularly stupid thing. Knowing Sherlock as he did now –even if it was only for a short period of time- John knew it was futile to passively influence him from Heaven. He would need to actively interfere and Mycroft didn't know where the Human-Angel was. It was time for John to prove he was still the best to watch over his charge.

His human form faded as his wings spread widely and touched the walls. His shoulder throbbed but it was a minor pain that he no longer cared for. Joy at being able to actually fully spread his wings was weighed down as urgency sent him through the building and into the air. John had one thing on his side that Mycroft did not have and that was even though John wasn't a Guardian angel, John still could sense the charge he was created to watch over when John was in his angelic form. It took him only a second to pinpoint Sherlock before he was flying in that direction.

"Stupid, stupid!" John muttered to himself against the wind. He could already sense the place where Sherlock was at and he landed on the ground outside of a college. A taxi cab sat innocently as John's human form was regained automatically as his wings retracted. "You stupid creature!" John growled. Sherlock had found the serial killer. John looked between the two college buildings and shook his head angrily at himself. He couldn't sense which building the Human-Angel was in; only that he was in this area. A guess needed to be made and John didn't have time to over-think it as he dashed into the left building.

The doors were open and some of the classrooms' lights were on but John didn't spot Sherlock in any of them. He noticed there was a janitor and crept pass that door so as not to be seen. He didn't know where the Human-Angel could possibly be but he knew the creature had to still be alive. John wouldn't be able to sense Sherlock's soul if the man was already dead. Alarm bells –bells that sounded similar to the warning bells that rang in danger during his Afghanistan tour- made a clamor in the back of his head. If Sherlock died here, John would never forgive himself.

_The other building._ He realized as he ran into the last room to check if Sherlock was there. The Human-Angel must be in the other building. He had chosen wrong. Did he have time to run to the other one? He looked forward and saw in the other building that there were lights on. Sitting at a table were two figures and one of them had wings. Both were holding something small between their fingers and were talking. _The murderer. The suicide pills._ "SHERLOCK!"John screamed and heard his own voice echo around the room but neither of the men heard him. Sherlock was going to take the pill. He could see it in the Human-Angel's eyes. His soul was bright –as it always was when facing an interesting situation- and his wings were fluttering with repressed anticipation and curiosity.

John threw the window opened and pulled out his gun. He could shoot the cabbie right here. Sherlock wouldn't take the pill if he wasn't being tempted. He could save Sherlock's life just like that but John's hand trembled for the first time since he had met Sherlock again. This time it wasn't from his PTSD but instead it was his very soul objecting. Deep down John was created to passively help the Human-Angel. He couldn't kill the cabbie for that would be John forcefully leaving his role. While John had already abandoned his role many times during his life at war, it wasn't the same as the situation he was in. Before they had been random humans but this was his charge. This was completely against his duty.

_Stop it. Stop shaking. I'll miss. I'll hit Sherlock if I keep shaking._ He scolded himself. He didn't have time to be conflicted. That pill was getting closer to Sherlock's lips. That smirk on the old cabbie's face couldn't possibly mean anything good. He had to shoot. _If I don't intervene, Sherlock will die. He'll forget about me and be reborn. To him, we would've never met. I'll be on the sidelines again._

John's hand stopped shaking. He took a breath and exhaled slowly before he shot. The gunshot was a crack in the night and it pierced the opposite window and went straight into the cabbie's chest. Sherlock dropped the pill. John's wings spread and he took to the air before the Human-Angel could even turn around. John flew a few blocks away and landed within a bathroom stall of a nearby fast food joint before his body became human again. His hands still had gunpowder residue on them. Outside as he listened closely he could hear police cars. He needed to check and make sure Sherlock was fully alright so he washed his hands and arms of all residue before he left to walk innocently towards the college. Police cars rushed past him and made the turn and soon an ambulance followed after. John took a couple of breaths as he walked a bit faster to the scene. He needed to calm himself down. Sherlock was fine; he had made sure of that. He could still sense the Human-Angel was still on Earth.

A circle of cars and police tape stopped John from getting too close to the scene. He looked around trying to spot a familiar bright soul as police chattered around him. He gathered something about the cabbie –a man named Jeffery something- was certainly the serial killer Sherlock had been tracking. The man had been found dead with a gunshot in the chest close to the heart. It had ripped through to the other side. Only one body, though. Some of the police were mumbling blame on Sherlock that made John angry but he brushed it away as he spotted his charge sitting in the back of an ambulance wearing a ridiculous orange shock blanket and talking to a silver-haired man. John recognized DI Lestrade from the badge he still carried in his jacket. Perhaps he would give it back to the man, if he wasn't blaming Sherlock for the murder as well.

Sherlock was talking quickly with the DI as he stood up and looked around. John recognized rapid-fire deductions. He shifted into his at-attention stance automatically with his arms behind his back and his feet shoulder-length apart. It felt appropriate after the battle he had just faced. Sherlock's eyes landed on him and he stopped mid-speech. John met his eyes and then looked away to pretend to just be another bystander looking curiously around. He spotted a body bag nearby. It was zipped up so he couldn't see the cabbie's face.

"Sherlock!" John turned back to watch his charge as the man walked towards him.

"_And_ I've just caught you a serial killer! …More or less." Sherlock called back to the disapproving Lestrade.

Lestrade regarded him for a moment before calling, "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." Sherlock didn't hesitate and spun back around to fully approach John. He pulled off his shock blanket and bundled it up before ducking under the police tape and tossing the blanket into the open window of the police car next to John.

"Um, I was just passing through and noticed the police. Overheard something about the pills. Found the killer did you? Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." John stared up at the man. His soul was bright in the night time. It would've been blinding to any human who could actually see it.

Sherlock searched him for a moment before quietly saying, "Good shot."

Of course Sherlock had already figured it out. Only Sherlock could've possibly guessed it was him –if it was even a guess. John tried to look innocent and cleared his throat some. "Yes. Yes, it must have been. Through that window." He pointed in the general direction of the window he'd shot from.

"Well, _you'd_ know." Sherlock wasn't letting John's lies fool him. John only stared at him imploring him to let it drop. He was innocent. He didn't need to go to jail for this when spiritually he was still warring with himself over this decision. He wondered if Sherlock would tell on him. Sherlock was a good man in this life, was he not? "Need to get the powder burns off of your fingers, if you haven't already. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case." John cleared his throat and looked away. Nobody around them appeared to have heard them. So Sherlock wasn't a fully good man in this life. He was actually covering for John. He supposed it was the least the rogue could do for John just saving his life.

"Are you alright?" John glanced back up at Sherlock who was watching him closely. John swallowed thickly.

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well, you_ have_ just killed a man."

"Yes, I…" John trailed off and allowed it to sink in for a moment. John had killed plenty of people before but this felt like a strike against him. He had interfered directly in his charge's life. He was never allowed to do such a thing. Would he be banned from Heaven for this? Was he going to become a Fallen angel for this? Already Mycroft was showing how upset Heaven was for the Guardian abandoning his post but was it worse to change a life that wasn't meant to be changed? He wasn't sure. It scared him some.

Sherlock was still watching him. John didn't have the pleasure to have these thoughts right now. This creature would see everything even if he didn't understand. "That's true, isn't it?" John said instead and faced his charge again with a smile. Sherlock didn't say anything. "But he wasn't a very _nice_ man." He defended himself, completely giving up on trying to feign innocence.

Finally Sherlock did speak after a moment. "No. No, he wasn't, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." Sherlock chuckled and the two began to make their way away from the scene. John followed Sherlock without hesitation.

"That's true." The Human-Angel agreed. "He _was _a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!" John laughed once a little too loudly and then lowered his voice to a chuckle as Sherlock grinned. John nudged him.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!" He scolded even as he continued to giggle himself.

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!" He hissed as he spotted a passing female officer who glanced at them suspiciously. She was one of the ones muttering about Sherlock earlier. "Sorry it's just –um- nerves, I think!"

"Sorry." Sherlock added turning to the woman as they walked passed her. John cleared his throat to get back the rogue's attention.

"You were gonna take that damn pill, weren't you?"

Sherlock spun back around in the correct direction to face him. "'Course I wasn't. I was biding my time."

"For what?"

"Knew someone would show up."

"No you didn't." John's eyes widened slightly as horrid realization dawned upon him. The Human-Angel really hadn't chosen a good life in this lifetime. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever." He chose this type of job to show-off to everyone and on top of that have the thrill of the chase. It was like the Human-Angel was a pirate all over again. That was his favourite life, it seemed.

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked.

They pulled to a stop. "Because you're an idiot." John smirked glad that finally he was able to tell the Human-Angel the thought he'd had for centuries. Sherlock grinned in delight and his wings dashed outward and flapped once. His soul was recognizing his match for the first time. John resisted a grin as Sherlock tried to stifle his own.

"How did you know where I was, anyway?"

"I didn't." John skated by. "I just happened to be in the other building."

"You're such a terrible liar." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly but he seemingly let the subject drop as John began walking. The rogue walked next to him in pleasant company. John allowed himself to revel in the companionship and thought that finally he was walking side-by-side with his charge. A car pulled up near them and Sherlock paused. His happy look closed off to an annoyed one that made John frown and look closely at the black car too. It wasn't until Mycroft stepped out –his wings firmly tucked away- did John realize why Sherlock had that look. He hid his annoyance at seeing the angel when he was still pretty pissed off. At least most of his fury had been taken out on a separate source.

"John, it's been a long time." Mycroft said pleasantly.

"Not long enough." John said back with fake civility. Sherlock quirked an interested eyebrow between them.

Mycroft sent a fake smile back. "Quite." He turned to his brother. "So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited…though that's not really your motivator, is it?" So Mycroft had noticed Sherlock's addiction too, John noted.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. John patted himself on the back for properly guessing that Sherlock would dislike Mycroft's active meddling. Nobody could force the Human-Angel to do anything it didn't want to.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you." Mycroft replied and John was surprised that it actually sounded genuine to him.

"Ah yes, the concern that smothers me and gives me no privacy. At least you did something right by calling the police." Sherlock replied flippantly.

"Always so aggressive. Isn't it obvious that we're on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe." John bit back a snort. "This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer…" John's eyes narrowed a bit. "…And you know how it always upset Mummy." He tacked on at the end.

"_I _upset her? Me?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. Mycroft only glowered at him. "It wasn't _me_ who upset her, Mycroft."

"I can't believe you're discussing your mother at a crime scene." John muttered.

Both brothers ignored him. "Putting on weight again?" Sherlock asked.

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft said with a hint of irritation. Sherlock smirked at his win. "When, exactly, did you become friends with Dr. Watson?"

"Friends?" Sherlock asked with a raise of his eyebrow. John glanced at him.

"Am I wrong?" Mycroft challenged.

"This is my colleague." Sherlock corrected.

"Colleague?" John questioned.

"And flatmate." He added causing both angels to look at him in differing forms of shock.

"Flatmate?" Mycroft breathed in disbelief.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." He dismissed his brother and strutted away casually with his hands in his coat's pockets. John gaped after him and then moved to follow him when he was stopped by the muse of science.

"I told you to stay away from him, Guardian, and now you're his flatmate?" Mycroft asked.

"If I had listened to you, Sherlock would be dead right now." John retorted.

"You killed a man tonight." He said and his glare glowed all of the way to John's soul. He shuddered feeling the angelic wrath.

"Spite me, then." John dared though his voice shook a bit. He cursed himself.

"You're clearly asking for it."

"I did what I had to to protect my charge. It's my job to protect him."

"It is your job to _watch_ him, not protect him." Mycroft corrected. John said nothing. "This is your final chance, Guardian. I'll allow it this time but next time you do anything like that again, you will meet your end. I can only stand for so much and Heaven is angry."

"I know." John said softly. Mycroft's look was slightly sympathetic this time.

"I understand that you love him. I do as well. He is my brother, after all, and I do not want to lose him anymore than you do."

"Then let me stay by his side. It's the best place for me to watch him." John begged lightly. Mycroft regarded him silently.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed and both angels glanced at the impatient rogue as he glared at them. John was shocked that he'd actually waited for him.

"For now, go to him. I'll be watching you two very closely." Mycroft said and John didn't bother to thank him as he jogged over to Sherlock's side. Sherlock huffed his annoyance.

"What took you so long?" He demanded.

"Old issues to address."

"What exactly did my brother do to you? He looked angry. It was wonderful."

John grinned at him but hurriedly changed the subject. "So. Flatmates?"

"Yes, when do you plan on moving in? I'm already unpacked but I'm sure we can fit your meager belongings."

"Who exactly said anything about us being flatmates?" John raised a brow at him.

"Oh don't give me that look. You clearly hate your living arrangements –you're out of your flat as much as possible even though you're not working- and you want to leave as soon as possible. However you're on an army pension and couldn't possibly afford to live comfortably in London so –flatmates. I happen to be looking for one and you saw the location. I sometimes don't speak for days on end and I play the violin –would either of those bother you?" Sherlock shot off rapidly.

John blinked a couple at him before he smiled a bit. "Not at all. You could do to shut up on occasion."

"So when will you move in?"

"I'll think about your offer." Though really, John didn't have to think about it at all.

* * *

**A/N: I'll post the next "chapter" later.**


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